


I’ve been through this all before (even though you meant the most to me)

by a_secondhand_sorrow



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: BandTrees, Character Study, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, SO I’m not responsible for my regrettable actions, it’s past midnight, mostly implied tho - Freeform, or studies, parallels between Evan and Zoe, the only thing I’ve done all day is watch stranger things 3, therefore im delirious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 19:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_secondhand_sorrow/pseuds/a_secondhand_sorrow
Summary: We crave human contact; not long-drifted, glassy eyes separated by a plane ride and a glint of glass and a thick layer of dirt and words printed on a page. There’s something quite different in finally finding a pair of eyes that look into yours and don’t look right through them.***(or: everyone leaves)





	I’ve been through this all before (even though you meant the most to me)

**Author's Note:**

> vaguely based on the prompt “everyone leaves. It’s okay. I’m cool with it.” title (kind of) from “too good at goodbyes” by Sam Smith
> 
> warnings: implied/referenced self harm, suicide mention, implied abuse

Sometimes, even though opening up hurts, it’s the only thing you know how to do. You can almost hear the way you don’t quite breathe afterwards in that silence-the silence which feels like it can be held, the silence that fills your lungs just before you see someone for the last true moment. That suffocating silence, the one in which you swear to yourself you’ll never trust another person, but you find yourself falling down the rabbit hole again and again.

When the silence breaks, it’s either a new beginning or an end.

Do you know how crushing that silence is, especially when ever time it ends and feels more crushing in memories than in the moment?

***

He was seven years old when his father pulled away in U-HAUL truck, just minutes after Evan had felt the total elation of being a young kid and sitting in a real truck. He was seven years old when he felt the swell of melancholy from somewhere deep inside of him, a wave he could crest upon for years and years and years. He was seven years old, and for the first time, he has no father.

He was eight when his mother started taking more shifts at the hospital, trying to cover the bills and bills and bills that piled up every month until the mountains stayed raized for a little before building back up again. He was eight when she began to disappear behind those mountains of bills until she blended into them so well it was hard to tell when she was at a shift and when she was home.

When he was twelve, his father remarried. It was just out of nowhere-Evan had barely heard from him, and then all of the sudden he was in Colorado, at a white-tableclothed table in a too-expensive suit with his mother next to him squeezing his arm and fiddling with the royal blue napkin and whispering about how she shouldn’t have taken the time off of work. It wasn’t too long after when the half sister came, tiny and adorable and perfect in every way Evan wasn’t to his father.

At thirteen, his best and only friend started pulling away. He hadn’t realized how many strings he’d attached to Jared before Jared began to snip each one. And then finally, Jared cut the final cord-with a hissed “get away, you fucking freak” that only sounded the smallest bit apologetic-and Evan was left drifting, uncertain and alone. He was thirteen, and everyone had left.

***

She was twelve when her brother started to threaten her. He was thirteen, then, and he hadn’t been quite like her big brother in the years before. But thirteen was quite the change. The fights with their mother turned from harmless spats to all-out war, with no place to hide. He’d bolt up to his room after arguments, and she’d run after him and pound on his door to let her in. He never did, and there were more than a few nights in her 12th year when she fell asleep right outside of his door, knowing the brother she missed was on the other side but not knowing quite how to reach him, especially when he emerged the next morning with a smudge of red leaking out from his sleeve. She’d grab at his sleeve to stop him, to try to see what was wrong, and he’d spin on his heel and grab her wrist. “Let go of me,” he’d say through gritted teeth, grip iron around her arm, eyes shielded under steel. She was twelve, and she was afraid of what would happen if she didn’t.

She was thirteen when her mother stopped asking her how her day was at school. At least before Cynthia would throw a cursory glance at her and ask, maybe not completely understanding but making some effort to talk to her. At thirteen, she’d either skip straight to her room or her mother would latch onto Connor as soon as he walked through the door. She’d try to say something, but Cynthia’s eyes would stay trained on Connor as she hummed absently. Even worse, the two would start screaming in the middle of a sentence. She was thirteen, and she gave up trying to be heard at all.

She was fourteen when her father retreated to their basement, to “clean his baseball things.” It wasn’t like he’d really been around much before, always sucked into work emails and newspapers and anything to avoid eye contact, but then he was physically gone. Zoe wondered whether he was really there at all, or if he slipped out the garage door and left for somewhere. Some part of her wished she was the one doing the second.

At fifteen, Connor threatened to kill her. She was fifteen and he was sixteen and breaking down her door every night to scream at her. She was fifteen and the one last shred of hope she’d held for her brother to still love her was crushed under his fist and the wall next to her head. He’d been gone for a long time, but now it felt more real.

When she was sixteen, Connor killed himself. He’d been gone. Now it was tangible; his body was six feet under ground, far away from the next room over. He still lurked for her, but now it was all in her head. He’d left her, just like everyone else, but she couldn’t seem to shake his ghost from the corners of her eyes.

***

When they met, at 16 and 17, it was no wonder why they connected. We crave human contact; not long-drifted, glassy eyes separated by a plane ride and a glint of glass and a thick layer of dirt and words printed on a page. There’s something quite different in finally finding a pair of eyes that look into yours and don’t look right through them.

It was always being seen, being felt, being heard; all hand holding and gentle kisses pressed to foreheads and soft conversation in cafeterias and glances across the room. They were insufferable to be around, because they rooted to each other like they were afraid the other would be gone if they stopped for a moment; like one too many people had disappeared while their back was turned and now there was no choice but to hold tight and not let go.

They had been all alone, drifting apart from the chaos around them, or was it that they were at the center of the chaos? But all at once, there’s one person who will never leave, who will be there on the other side of a hand squeeze. There’s another person who they know is looking up at the same night sky, and seeing the same stars, and feeling the same cool breeze, and thinking about the same constellations. There’s one person who they know will look at the stars and think of them, no matter what. No matter who else comes and leaves, just like so many before them, there’s that _one_ other person made up from the same long-separated stardust from galaxies old as time and sand that shifts like the air itself, and time and time again they will be there.

Leaving, for once, isn’t an eventuality.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I haven’t posted in forever but stranger things JUST came out so I figured I’d get this here now. pls come scream with me abt bandtrees (or st for that matter I’m very sidetracked by that atm) on my blog @itstrulyastrangerthing or see my writing sideblog for..writing. @a-secondhand-sorrow. I’m lonely and I want attention but what ELSE is new.


End file.
